


Fortune Favors the Bold

by janvandyne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Gladiator AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8457826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janvandyne/pseuds/janvandyne
Summary: When the gladiators revolt, James spares but one life.





	

He did not belong to you. He was a slave, but given a different master - a master who, in return, gave him a sword and a shield and thought him merely a man. This man, like all others, was shaped from clay and given the breath of life from the gods, but he surpassed his makers and rose above the heavens. He became a divinity worthy of praise, if only you knew how to worship a being that was more than a god.

But neither did you belong to him. You were the goddaughter to his master and an almost intangible dream were it not for the mornings that he awoke light and slow from sleep, his flesh still aglow with the flush of forbidden love; his lips still ablaze with passionate kisses, too brisk and pleasantly burning; his fingertips still grasping at a long departed phantom who made pilgrimage to his cell in the dark of night.

But shadows disappear in the light, and under the blush of the crimson sun, all things return to what they truly are. James, not a god, but a man standing in shackles. You, not a fantasy, but a woman who must hide desire behind false visage.

You feel as though you were forsaking your god, thought it a blasphemous thing to look down upon him. But there you are, atop the balcony with others so unworthy of their elevated station. To think themselves more than he who stands upon the sands, to have him positioned below their feet and to watch over him, omnisciently, his every move under scrutiny - they would be struck down for their impiety.

 _We shall all be punished_.

“My heart to the Legatus,” Alexander proclaims, “and his support. In the hopes that you will share it in the coming days, I present a gift of blood. Two legends of the arena to face each other _sine missione_ \- no quarter given, no mercy shown. Behold James, the Savage Slav!”

A murmur sweeps through the crowd, the patrons pleased at their host’s announcement. You move to the edge of the balcony and lean over the parapet with the others, anxious to get a better view. The man breaks line and steps forward as the Romans applaud, and soon he is free of his manacles.

“And who shall attempt to tame him?” Alexander continues. “There can be but one man. Steven, Slayer of the Shadow of Death!”

More cheers. More applause. The group crowds closer to the balcony walls so that all may better watch the battle. The intimacy sickens you. So eagerly these Romans call for blood and so near to it they wish to be. But you are among them, as close to the edge as you can get. As close to James.

“He is of a form, is he not?” you hear someone speak from beside you. You turn to the woman, but the other pays you no mind. Instead, she watches Steven as he takes to the sands, swords tight in his grip and head held up high to stare up at the spectators.

“The man stands a god,” another around you replies, a broad smile on his anxious face.

Steven may be a god, but James is something more.

“Begin!”

Weapons up and ready, the gladiators face each other, both champions in their own right, but today only one would prove legend true. James is the first to move with an appeal to his makers, a loud war cry that lifts up to the heavens, filling the sky with his rage. He was not created to die at the hands of this pretender and the gods would bear witness to his fate.

Steel meets steel like lightning and thunder, sending sparks flying into the air with a metallic clamor. The sound rings in your ears until the only thing you can hear is the sound of sword against shield. Advancing, retreating, the two men make furious assault on each other until one falls - James, with his back upon the sands.

You gasp in horror, but you will not turn away. James does not deserve such treachery, such faithlessness. You stand still until he looks at you, your eyes shining with bridled tears of devotion and love. James is no coward, and neither will you be. You will not hide your face in fear of unwanted outcome, but stand tall with faith in your god.

And does he hear your prayers? He must, for he bounds to his feet with a renewed vigor, creating a storm with his shining weapons as he attacks his opponent. A sword is lost, and Steven is half unarmed, left to fight with just one gladius against the true Champion of York. But that’s enough, and James is again on the sands, kneeling in the rough grains, hot and sharp against his flesh.

He looks up, staring at you, you who will not look away, and a sadness creeps over his bright eyes. Your hands grip the parapet, silently urging him to stand, to fight. Why does he fade? Where is the fire that you know so well? And, finally, there it is - a white hot flame that ignites as his eyes briefly flickers to Ophelia. Ophelia. The hatred is clear and you cannot help but look over at your uncle’s wife once James turns his back to the Romans.

Screams.

And as you turn, you watch as Steven flies over the balcony, sword sweeping through the crowd, blood flinging through the air. The woman beside you falls, throat gaping, and before you know what’s happening, you’re being pushed towards the interior of the villa by a frantic wave of terrified patricians.

You push through the crowd and leave the screams behind you, mind blank in the throes of shock and only the most inherent instinct of survival guiding your footsteps. Your emerald skirts billow in the air, your sandals tapping against marble as you move as fast as your feet can carry you to the only haven you know.

You meet no other on your way in the lonely corridors, and when you reach your room you close the door fast behind you, resting your back against the cool wood. Your chest heaves in exhaustion and fear and anger. It was your god that hoisted Steven high into the heavens, subjecting you to whatever fate you would meet this day.

The door flies open, pushing you roughly into your room. You right yourself and turn quickly, and there stands James - thick and broad, bronze skin glistening with sweat and blood. He kicks the door close with his heel, never taking his eyes off of you.

“What offense have I committed for you to seek me out in my chambers?” you manage to say, but your words came out an uneasy sigh. James steps toward you, and you take a stumbling stride back, tripping over your dress. James stops and looks down at the sword in his hand, dripping red with Roman blood.

“You think I would strike you down?” he asks.

You clutch at your skirts, anxiously balling the fabric in your fists. “As you would do the others,” you reply, willing the tears not to fall from your salt-stung eyes.

James lets his weapon fall with a sharp crash on the hard floor, then sweeps you into his arms before you can counter his movements. He holds you tight to his chest and you instantly melt into him, the scarred flesh warm and slick against your cheek.

“Carissima -” he says. Dearest. He holds your head in his hands, weaving your hair between his fingers. Softly, he moves you back so that he may look upon your face. James lets his fingertips wander over your fragile throat, your pulse fluttering under the pad of his thumb.

“My hands have never touched you but with tender caress,” he whispers and his words ring true. Even in the times of half frenzied urgency, he was still gentle, treating you as a delicate treasure that would turn to dust if clutched too tight.

And now, you are truly pliable under his touch. He could break you easily, bend you, mold you into whatever he wants you to be, and you would oblige willingly. Yet that is not something he desires. He longs for only you. He longs for the nights when you would creep down into the ludus under the cloak of darkness, when there was not slave nor master. No Slav nor Roman. Only a man and woman held fast in each other’s arms.

“I overreached,” you say, cupping his jaw in your palm. “I abandoned the gods for a more sacred thing and now I am punished for it.”

James leans his forehead against yours. “The gods favor us,” he replies, his strong arms wrapped firm around your body. Your lips almost touch as he speaks and you yearn for him to move even closer still. “We are now both of us free of this cursed house.”

“No. You are free,” you say, looking up at him sadly. “I will stay and you will leave, taking everything I have with you. I don’t think I will ever find it in myself to forgive you.”

Yet the soft tone of pardon is already in your voice and James sweeps your hair from your shoulders, tilting your head back so that he may capture your lips in a kiss. You whimper into his mouth, his fevered flesh hot against yours, igniting a burning desire elsewhere. You clutch his shoulders and try to bring him closer, try to disappear into his comforting embrace.

He backs you into the wall, harder, you’re sure, than he intended, crushing you between his firm weight and the rough stone. He continues to kiss you, so fierce that your body feels aflame, his red lips insistent against yours. You can feel his cock beneath his clothes, hard and thick and so tempting, and you move your hips to press against him.

“Come with me,” he pleads, lips barely leaving yours. “Come with me and we will forge a new life.”

“You know I cannot,” you tell him, and the tears fall freely now, chest and throat constricting, breath caught in your lungs. James wipes the tears away, his thumbs soft against your cheeks. He kisses your face, whispers words of comfort in your ear until you’re calm, his warm body enveloping yours.

“One last time, James,” you whisper, even as the echoes of scream reverberate in the halls outside of your door. “Leave me with this.”

He takes your hands and holds your arms above your head, wrists firmly in his grasp, his lips against your throat and, oh gods, his other hand is spreading your legs. His fingertips are coarse and calloused, scratching against the bare skin of your soft thighs, but they feel far better than even the finest silk in all of Rome.

His fingers slide in your cunt slow and slick, and you throw your head back in rapture. He lets go off your wrists, presses his fingers to your lips, pushing two into your mouth to suck on while he fucks you with his other hand. He strokes your walls, presses his palm against your clit, making your gasp and moan.

You bring your arms down and hold him behind his neck, pulling him down, pulling him closer. You’ll do anything to get flesh against more warm flesh, arching and bowing, pressing your chest against his and lifting your leg to tighten around his hip.

You sigh when James removes his fingers from your cunt, disappointed at the loss, but he quickly removes his belt and lowers his cloth to free his hard cock, pressing the tip against your wet entrance. He thrusts inside of you, hard and fast, making you cry out around his fingers.

He takes the digits from between your lips and covers your mouth with his palm. His other hand holds tight to your thigh, keeping your leg wrapped around his body as he pumps in to you, the perfect curve of his cock making the tip massage that soft, sensitive spot inside of your cunt.

“Come for me, carissima,” he says, one hand over your mouth. “I want to feel you come around my cock.”

And you do, squeezing your eyes shut tight as he kisses your heated cheek at the edge of his fingertips. You gasp and groan, stilling the roll of your hips when the sensation becomes too much and pull back, only to have James move with you.

He comes, too, fucking you hard and relentlessly. He buries his face into your neck, teeth sinking into the soft skin at the curve of your shoulder. You feel his hips stutter, his hand tighten on your thigh and he spills his seed inside of you.

The mark he made with his teeth will bloom into a bruise. His fingerprints will turn purple on your thigh. He will leave and you will stay, with only those reminders to keep you. You won’t even have the comfort of knowing he is safe, wherever he is. Won’t have the comfort of knowing that he’s alive.

“I must go,” he whispers, smearing the words across your jaw. You nod and inhale deeply, catching the breath that James has stolen from you. He lets go of your leg and you attempt to still yourself on knees too weak to move with much purpose.

“Bar the door,” he says, breathless as well. Still holding fast to your hips as if he would never let you go. “Do not leave the room until this is finished.”

“James -”

He wipes a single tear from your cheek, smooth and warm, and lets his thumb linger on your lips swollen from his kisses. “We will unite again, in a life far better than this one,” he tells you. “On the shores of the River Styx, we will meet in grand embrace.”

You smile sadly at the gladiator, your god whom you have put all your faith into. He did not belong to you, nor did he belong to anyone else. He was given a master who thought him merely a man, but this day he had proven everyone false.

You bend down and retrieve his sword from the ground. It was heavier than you thought it would be, but you lift it without difficulty and hand it to James.

“No,” you tell him. “We will meet in the heavens. And then we will rise above them.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this! Some of the dialogue and plot is taken from the TV series Spartacus. If you want more, let me know because I'm thinking of writing a sequel!


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